“You never want her to know of you—anything about you?” asked the Judge.
“No,” choked Monty. “Never!”
“Every man has good in him,” said the Judge slowly. “You had better go—now!”
Without a word, then, Monty got up and went. He did not rush off like the reporter. He stopped and touched the baby’s dirty little dress with the tips of his fingers. And then he went, and the front door closed slowly and creaked, and the screen door closed slowly and creaked, and his shoes came down slowly on the walk and creaked, and the iron gate-latch creaked. I went to the window and looked out one side of the flapping curtain, and I saw Monty Cranch move along the fence and raise his arms and stop and move again. In the moonlight, with its queer shadows, he still looked like half man and half ape, scuttling away to some place where everything is lost in nothing.
“We can’t do anything more to-night,” said the Judge, touching my shoulder. “Take the child upstairs.”
“Yes, sir,” said I.
“Stop!” he said huskily. “Let me look at her. What is in that body? What is in that soul? What is it marked with? What a mystery!”
“It is, indeed,” I answered.
“They look so much alike when they come into the world,” he said, talking to himself. “So much alike! I thought it was Julianna.”
“And yet—” I said.